Stochasticity
by Shadowed Shinobi
Summary: Love is more than romance. It is a powerful bond uniting the unlikeliest of souls. Explore the relationships formed between friends, enemies, families, and stangers. Chapter Two: A Wednesday. Pairing: George Weasley and Viktor Krum.
1. Schoolgirl Fantasy

**Introduction: **Each story in this series contains a pairing generated randomly. The following stories will reveal a bond of love, be it romantic or otherwise, consensual or one-sided, between the two people chosen at random. Ratings will vary per story. Please enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Harry Potter series. I seriously doubt that this will change over the course of my writing this series of stories, but if it does, rest assured that I will inform you.

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_**Stochasticity**_** – **Randomness; the quality of lacking any predictable order or plan

Pairing: Katie Bell/ Severus Snape

Rating: K

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Schoolgirl Fantasy

Katie Bell watched the scene in the Gryffindor common room with some measure of exasperation. She winced as a second-year took a bite of a pastry offered to him by George Weasley and morphed into a large canary. Honestly, at this point he should know not to accept food from the Weasley twins; they had been concealing Canary Creams in all sorts of foods since they invented them last year.

Her eyes trailed over the rest of the room. She cringed slightly when she spotted Fred Weasley and Angelina Johnson sitting in a corner. Fred whispered something in her ear, causing Angelina to blush furiously and thump him playfully on the chest. Katie shook her head and looked away. She just didn't understand what her friend saw in Fred. He was good-looking enough, certainly, but he and his brother were both so _immature_. Frankly, the same could be said about all the Gryffindor boys. Clearly, maturity was not a requirement for courage.

Katie sighed. She wanted someone _older_. She was sixteen, and was tired of dating boys who made her feel like a babysitter instead of a girlfriend. However, she was unlikely to find anyone that suited her fancy here at Hogwarts. There was not a single student she deemed worthy of her.

'But students aren't the only people at Hogwarts, are they?' whispered a small voice in the back of her mind.

Katie considered this momentarily. There were only a handful of male teachers and staff at Hogwarts, and none that instantly came to mind when casting around for someone appealing.

First off, there was Filch, the caretaker. Katie immediately ruled him out. He was entirely too creepy.

Next, there was Hagrid. She mentally shook her head. He was nice enough, she supposed, but slightly frightening, and not even remotely attractive.

There was Headmaster Dumbledore. Katie cringed inwardly. He was old enough to be her great-grandfather. She didn't want anyone _that_ mature.

Professor Binns was a ghost. That ruled him out.

That left only Professor Flitwick, who barely came up to her midriff. Plus, he looked vaguely like a goblin, which was rather strange.

Katie sighed again, having exhausted her list of professors. She would just have to wait until she left school to find someone, she supposed. She glanced around the common room, looking for something to distract her. She spotted Alicia curled up in an armchair by the fire with a textbook, quill, and parchment, scribbling furiously. Katie walked over to her. "What are you working on, Alicia?" she asked, more to have something to talk about than because she actually cared.

Alicia furiously crossed something out on her paper before replying, "Snape gave us a ridiculously complicated essay on Capitulation Cordials, and I have to have it finished by tomorrow morning."

Katie was only half-listening. She had forgotten about Professor Snape. She was not taking Potions because she had only received an 'Acceptable' on her O.W.L. last year. However, now she wished she had studied harder…

Snape was relatively young, only in his mid-thirties or so. He was also good-looking enough, in an unusual sort of way. Most importantly, he was definitely mature and completely unlike any of the boys Katie knew.

She was out the portrait hole and halfway to the dungeons before she realized that she had moved. She had no plan, no idea what she was doing, but she continued nevertheless. She felt as though this was meant to be. She reached the dungeons, strode over to the Potions classroom, and walked in to find…

Nothing. Katie mentally smacked herself. It was nine o'clock at night; there was absolutely no reason why Snape would be in his classroom. Rather than leaving, however, she sat down on a nearby desk to think, plotting ways to make the Potions master hers. Her mind swiftly conjured up images of quiet conversations by the fireside, soft kisses shrouded in darkness, and a host of other fantasies involving the dark-haired, ivory-skinned professor.

"What, may I ask, are you doing here, Miss Bell?" said a voice softly from the doorway, interrupting Katie's reverie. She whirled to find none other that Severus Snape looking at her coldly. She blushed and stared at the floor.

"I was looking for you, Professor," she stammered, unable to think of an adequate lie with celerity.

Snape raised his eyebrow. "And why, pray tell, were you doing that?" he drawled.

Katie's blush deepened. Before she could stop herself she said, "I just wanted to see you. I _really_ miss having you as a teacher, Professor." She met the older man's gaze, desire evident in her eyes.

Snape looked slightly taken aback. He merely stared at her for a moment. Then another moment. Then another. Finally, he did the last think Katie wanted: he laughed, loudly and cruelly. When he was done laughing, the icy look had returned. "I suggest, Miss Bell," he sneered, "that you return to your common room immediately, before you make an even bigger fool of yourself than you already have. Furthermore, thirty points will be taken from Gryffindor for your being out after hours. I will refrain from giving you detention, however. Do not view this as magnanimity; I merely have no desire for you to spend any more time in my presence. Good night." He jerked his head toward the door.

Katie left as quickly as she could, heart breaking into a million pieces. She walked slowly back up toward the common room, stunned. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill over. How could she have been so stupid?

"Oi, Katie!" sounded a voice behind her. She turned to see Lee Jordan, arms laden with food from the kitchens. He walked up beside her and peered cautiously at the tears now trickling silently down her cheeks.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly.

Katie shook her head. "I just did something really dumb. I don't want to talk about it."

Lee looked concerned, but then smiled at her. "Don't worry about it. I've done loads of really dumb things myself. They always blow over eventually, don't you worry." Balancing his burden carefully in one arm, he reached out the other and grabbed Katie's hand. "Now come on! Fred and George have some fireworks that they're going to let off in the common room. It'll be cool, I promise!" he said, tugging her toward the nearby staircase.

Katie allowed herself to be led and smiled, wiping away her tears with her free hand. Maybe Gryffindor boys weren't so bad after all.


	2. A Wednesday

_**Stochasticity – **_Randomness; the quality of lacking any predictable order or plan

Pairing: George Weasley/ Viktor Krum

Rating: T

A Wednesday

No one was supposed to visit on Wednesday. Wednesday was dedicated to Fred; that's what George had decided upon Fred's death a year ago. So, once a week, George would shut down the store, turn off the slightly garish neon sign outside the front door, and reminisce about his beloved twin brother, more often than not nursing a bottle of firewhiskey as he did so.

His family had complained, at first. It wasn't healthy for him to brood like that, they said. To prevent this, they attempted weekly to drag him to dinners at the Burrow; parties with Bill and Percy's office buddies; and, worst of all, group dates with Ron and Hermione, Percy and his new girlfriend, or Harry and Ginny, along with whatever poor girl they dredged up for him. They meant well, but their forced smiles and sideways glances did little to help his fragile sanity. After a while, thankfully, they wised up and left him alone on those days. Well, they probably left him alone because of the anti-Apparation charms, disconnection of his fireplace from the Floo network, and privacy spells he put in place, but he liked to think that they had just stopped trying because they realized what was best for him.

Today was Wednesday and George was in the store, because George was always in the store. There was simply no other place that he felt like visiting, barring the occasional trip to the Leaky Cauldron for a few more bottles of Ogden's Old. On this particular Wednesday, George had even less reason to leave than usual, because Nature had decided to unleash her fury in the form of a mid-February blizzard that, despite Diagon Alley's heating enchantment that prevented snow from piling up in the streets, had managed to cover the ground in a foot of snow.

Staring out the window, George sighed and poured himself another glass of firewhiskey. It warmed him up nicely on such a miserable day. That could be his reason for drinking today, he told himself; he was drinking because it was cold outside, not because he was cold inside. Not because he had died a year ago back at Hogwarts amidst flying spells and destruction and insanity.

His thoughts, of red hair that matched his, a crooked smile that matched his, twinkling hazel eyes that matched his, a joyous laugh that matched how his had been once, were interrupted by the light clanging of the bell that announced the arrival of a customer. The noise startled George. He had not bothered charming or even locking the front door because he had figured that no one would wander around Diagon Alley during a blizzard. Apparently, he thought as he stared at the heavily cloaked figure standing in the doorway, he was wrong.

The stranger irritably shook his head, dislodging snow onto George's nice, clean floors, swearing in a foreign language. George wrenched his gaze from the visitor and instead looked at the bottle in his hand. The bottle was still more than half full, meaning he hadn't drunk nearly enough to cause hallucinations. Firewhiskey was odd, but not that odd. But what other explanation could there be for the appearance of a stranger travelling through a blizzard to his shop? George came to the conclusion that he had cracked at last, and having decided this, returned to his whiskey, ignoring the imaginary stranger completely.

This worked for all of ten seconds before the stranger addressed George, dispelling all hopes of hallucination. "Zis is Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, no?" he asked in a deep, heavily accented voice.

"I s'pose it is," George replied thickly. "But we're closed. It's Wednesday," he explained, as if that made everything clear.

The stranger nodded his head. "It is," he agreed, "but I don't know vot that has to do vith anything." He eyed both George and his bottle with a mixture of interest and distaste. "You are Mr. Weasley, yes?"

George snorted. "Yeah, I am, for all that it's worth. And who exactly are you?"

His guest hesitated, then slowly pulled down the hood of his cloak. George saw with a detached, mild sort of surprise a familiar hooked nose and beady dark eyes. "Viktor Krum," he said by way of introduction in a tone suggesting that this was often followed by an unpleasant sort of commotion.

A year ago, a visit from the most famous seeker of the day would have thrilled George to no end. Now he merely shrugged disinterestedly. "And what can I do for you, Mr. Krum?" he asked dully, not even bothering to adopt his cheery salesman façade. It was Wednesday, after all.

Krum met his gaze, as if trying to decide an appropriate response. At last, he conceded, "I don't know, really. I vos vandering around ze alley, and zis seemed like a good place to go. Something inside me said to come in, so I did."

George blinked in disbelief. "You were just wandering around." Krum nodded. "In the middle of a blizzard."

Krum shrugged. "It felt like ze right thing to do."

Shaking his head in amazement, George said, "You're even crazier than I am." With that, he poured the remains of his glass of firewhiskey down his throat. As he was enjoying the sensation, both comfortably warm and painfully harsh, an unwelcome thought struck him. Lowering his glass, he eyed Krum suspiciously. "My family didn't put you up to this, did they?"

Krum looked confused. "I haf no idea vot you are talking about."

That was good enough for him, George decided. The alcohol coursing through his bloodstream made it much more difficult to care. The pair settled into silence, Krum wandering around peering intently at the various trinkets and tricks occupying the shelves, George peering intently at the bottle occupying his hand. They continued on this fashion for some time, Krum occasionally stopping to pick up and examine a particularly interesting item. The silence grew increasingly heavier as Krum made his way around the store, culminating in a crescendo as he completed his round and stood awkwardly by the counter at which George sat.

Krum studied George once again before speaking, a concerned look on his face. George had at this point consumed more alcohol than was safe. "I suppose I should go now. I am sorry for bozuring you. Take care, Mr. Weasley." That last part sounded sincere, as if it were more than a mere farewell. With a nod of his head, Krum moved hesitantly toward the door.

"Wait." George's voice was not nearly as slurred as it should have been at this point, all things considered. But then again, it was a Wednesday, and this was what happened on Wednesdays. "You can't go back out there. You'll freeze. Why don't you Apparate to wherever you need to go? I'll take the wards down for a minute." He pulled out his wand, prepared to do exactly that, but Krum shook his head.

"I can't Apparate. I left my vand back in my room at ze Leaky Cauldron."

George stared at him blearily, as if Krum had just stated that he went out without his arms. "What possessed you to do that, you nutter?"

Krum shrugged once again in that infuriating manner. "It felt like…"

"…The right thing to do. Yeah, you've mentioned. Well, this is a bloody wonderful situation. I can't Apparate you there myself; I'd probably end up shoving both of us halfway through a brick wall, and I'm not much in the mood for that."

Krum waved his hand impatiently at George. "It is not zat bad," he said. "I vill just valk back."

George slammed his fist angrily on the counter. "The hell you will! You'd die before you got ten feet from here. You're already shivering," he noted. "Come upstairs. I'll give you some clothes and get you something warm to drink." He jerked his head toward the staircase, and Krum obliged wordlessly. As he passed, George muttered to himself, "I won't have another death on my conscience."

George did a fair job of getting up the stairs on his own, given his current state. Krum only had to save him from toppling over twice. After the second time, Krum though it wise to keep a grip on the red-headed man. He led him carefully through the door at the top of the stairs into a small, dimly lit apartment. George, out of habit, kicked off his shoes at the edge of the staircase. Krum followed suit, inspecting the apartment as he did so. To the left was a small sitting room with a hallway leading toward a series of doors. To the right was a kitchen that must once have been brightly colored, but was now dingy and grease-colored from carelessness and an aversion to cleaning. He entered, pulling George behind him, and made a beeline for the table situated in the center of the room. He sat George down and withdrew his grip.

However, George immediately snatched Krum's hand back, peering at it intently. He poked it with his free hand. "Your skin is like ice," he declared after several moments of intense contemplation. With that, he pulled out his wand from within his robes and swished it vaguely in Krum's direction. Rather than drying off and heating nicely, Krum's robes caught fire at the hem. Both men swore simultaneously as Krum stamped out the small flames.

"Sorry," said George, feebly scratching the back of his head. "I didn't do it on purpose, promise."

Krum gestured toward George's wand. "May I?" he queried, keeping any trace of annoyance out of his voice. George nodded reluctantly and handed over his wand. Krum muttered a quick spell and hot air came gushing out of the tip. He directed the jet toward his damp clothing, sighing contentedly as warmth and feeling returned to his limbs. Perhaps he was a little colder than he let on.

While Krum dried himself, George attempted to make sense of the thoughts mulling around in his increasingly befuddled brain. Krum was here because it was cold and walking in a blizzard was a really stupid thing to do. So Krum needed to be warm. "I'll make tea!" George announced, astonished by the brilliance of his new plan. Before he could fully rise out of his seat to do so, Krum pushed him back down.

"I vill do it," he said. "I think zat you using either magic or fire right now vould be a very bad idea." With a swish of George's wand, a battered teapot appeared on the stove. Another swish and a jet of water shot from the wand into the pot's spout. One last swish and the stove turned on, beginning to heat. While the water warmed, Krum rummaged through the kitchen drawers, searching for tea leaves.

"They're in the cabinet above the sink," said George, his head now resting on the table. He watched as Krum found them in the location specified and finished preparing the tea. Holding the kettle with care, Krum sat himself at the table with George. He looked at George, his brow furrowed. Then, he conjured a pewter jug filled with an unpleasant looking green liquid.

"Drink," he ordered, pushing the brew toward George, summoning an empty teacup for himself and filling it before setting the wand on the table between them. First George took the wand and stowed it in his robes. Then he picked up the jug and sniffed suspiciously. The smell made him gag.

"What the hell is this?" he exclaimed, his words slightly slurred.

"A mixture of dragon's blood, snargaluff sap, powdered unicorn horn, and phoenix tears. It vill neutralize ze alcohol. You drank so much zat it could kill you."

George laughed bitterly. "And wouldn't that be tragic," he sneered. Nevertheless, he raised the jug in mock salutation toward Krum before taking a large gulp of the thick potion, wincing as he did so. "This tastes like dragon dung," he moaned after forcing himself to swallow.

"And how exactly vould you know zat?"

The cup found its way to George's lips once more. After taking another shuddering mouthful, he replied, "There was a bet, you see. Lee Jordan and I had ten galleons riding on which of us could stomach the foulest things. We had pancakes infused with bubotuber pus, sandwiches topped by _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_ ink, you name it. Neither of us looked like we were going to cave, so Fred brought in a heaping pile of dragon dung. He said whichever one of us ate the most would be the winner, while the other would suffer the indignity of forevermore being 'the biggest pussy to ever set foot within Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, dutybound to carry out all the unpleasant obligations that came with that title.' He always was–" George halted abruptly. The nostalgia clouding his eyes vanished as his heart filled with ice, just like it did every time he thought of Fred. He hugged himself tightly, fighting back tears. Fred was gone, but George was here. That didn't make any sense; they were always together. The hyperventilation began as usual as George came to the inevitable conclusion of this line of thought: He should have died the day of the fight, too. There had been some egregious heavenly oversight that had left George forgotten, dead in soul but not in body. The corners of George's vision swam with blackness. He was going to pass out now, slip into blissful nothingness. Maybe, he though hopefully, he was going to die.

A pair of burly arms encircling him hesitantly halted his welcome descent into darkness. George had completely forgotten Krum's presence. At this point, though, he was beyond feeling embarrassment at breaking down in front of someone who was little more than a stranger. He gave up on restraining his tears and allowed them to flow freely and abundantly down his cheeks. He was barely cognizant of Krum's lifting and carrying him into the sitting room, only registering that he had been moved once his rear came in contact with the thinly padded sofa. He was dimly aware that Krum was speaking to him, muttering soothingly in a language that could have been English or Bulgarian. George was so far gone he could no longer tell the difference. It was a pleasurable noise, George decided. Low and gravelly, but at the same time rhythmic, soft, and kind. Understanding.

George was not aware of falling asleep, but he opened his eyes to find that the sitting room window was dark, darker than was reasonable for two in the afternoon even during a blizzard. He sat up, a thin blanket rolling off his chest onto the floor. The movement caused a dull throbbing in his head. It was not nearly as painful as it had the right to be, however, given how much he drank. He considered this, then considered what to do next. He guessed it was around eleven or so. The way he saw it, he had two options: Go back to sleep or have a drink. The latter sounded rather appealing. It was still Wednesday, after all. Just as he had decided that this was an ideal course of action, a dark-haired head poked into the room.

The head, followed by its owner, made its way over to the couch and settled itself next to George. George remained silent, recalling vividly the events of last night, the consequences of his drinking, and the complete loss of control he had suffered. Silently he begged Krum to never mention it again, to just leave right away, blizzard or no.

"Vot happened to him?" Krum asked softly.

George sighed internally. No such luck. Steeling himself, he began to tell the story that inevitably led to heaping amounts of pity, false comfort, and tears. "He died fighting You-Know-Who." He stared at the floor, waiting for the oh-my-goodness-how-tragic-how-did-it-happen response that typically followed. Krum's silence caused George to look up at him. Understanding was etched on his face; he nodded slightly, indicating that George could continue if he wished. And for once, George did wish to do so. This was not a red-haired family member whose eyes would mist over as soon as he or she looked at George. This was not an old friend from school. This was Viktor Krum, international Quidditch sensation, so far removed from George's world and his life with Fred that it enabled him to speak at last.

"We were fighting in the battle that day. You know the one, when Harry made sure You-Know-Who kicked it for good. Anyway, it was going swimmingly, cause Perce had finally pulled his head out of his arse and seen what was up, and the three of us were fighting together. We had just taken out that prat of a minister, Pious Thicknose or whatever his name was, and we had met up with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Then… I don't know, it was so confusing. There were spells everywhere; I guess one of them misfired and hit the wall. Evidently, the damn wall had had enough of that sort of thing, because it collapsed with a huge crash and kicked up a bunch of dust. When it cleared, I looked over and there was Fred. He was just lying there, blood seeping out of his thick skull. He was laughing, too, because Perce had made some stupid joke. Didn't know he had it in him, really. That's not important, though. What's important is that wall crumbled and then Fred was there but he wasn't _there_. What the hell kind of death is that? Death by _wall_? A legion of dark wizards scurrying about with giants and spiders and other monsters in tow, and he manages to get offed by a bloody wall? Who the hell does that?"

"We buried him a week later. It was a very solemn funeral; Fred would have hated it. Mum wept her eyes out the whole time. And everyone kept looking at me, whispering. I knew what they were saying, too: That's the _other_ twin, oh, poor him. It's so sad that he's lost his brother. They have no freaking idea! I have always had Fred by my side. I can count on one hand the number of nights we haven't slept in the same room. I don't think we were really two separate people, so I don't know what I am without him."

"I feel so guilty. Like I should have stopped it somehow. I should have at least died with him. All I can think of is how he's somewhere cold and frightening, all alone. What kind of brother lets that happen? I dream about it. That's why I drink so much, to make it go away. But I hate it, because I know Fred would hate it. He'd tell me to stop being such a prat and to get on with my life. That just makes me feel guiltier."

George took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling utterly miserable but oddly liberated. He hugged his knees to his chest and rested his chin upon them. This was the first time, in all of his retellings of the events of that night, he had really admitted how broken it had left him. It was the first time that he had acknowledged his drinking problem, something that he had worked so diligently to conceal from family and friends. It was like pulling a bandage off of an infected wound; the damage was revealed, but steps could be taken to put it right again.

George hadn't realized that he was crying until Krum reached out and wiped away the droplets creeping down his cheeks. "Vell, I think you just need somevun to remind you how to be happy. Real happy, not fake happy vith pretend smiles and feigned recovery. Ze sort of happy that lets you remember ze good times vith your brother without being swallowed up by ze bad," said Krum softly. His hand drifted down from George's cheek and took his hand instead. Krum stood up swiftly and made his way toward the staircase, tugging George insistently behind him. Together, they stumbled back into the shop. Then Krum led him out into the frigid February night.

The blizzard had slowed at last, continuing only as a gentle sprinkling of snow drifting languidly to the ground. There it settled in heaps a foot or so high that covered most of the cobblestone street, the heating spells having been exhausted completely by the day's weather. George gasped at the cold and pulled his robes tightly around him, dancing in place as he struggled to keep his bare feet out of the snow. He fumbled in his robe for his wand and muttered a chattering warming charm. He sighed in relief as the spell took over, reviving his rapidly numbing toes. The sigh quickly turned into a yelp as something soft, wet, and cold hit the side of his head. He whipped around angrily to see Krum standing a few feet away, barefoot and chilled but smirking and forming another snowball.

A feral grin spread across George's face. Soon snow was flying all along the lantern-studded street, accompanied by occasional shouts of laughter or teasing insults. Every bit of George's cloak was soaked with melted snow, and his cheeks were flushed from exhilaration, exhaustion, and cold seeping in through his depleted charms. He lobbed another armful of snow at Krum, hitting him squarely in the chest and causing him to swear loudly. George's triumphant grin was interrupted by a snowball to his right shoulder. The snow somehow wiggled its way into George's robes, melting in icy rivulets down his skin. While George was distracted with trying to extract the half-melted snowball from his clothing, Krum snuck over and dumped a large pile of snow right on top of George's head.

George blinked for a moment in shock as the snow fell in clumps from his hair to his shoulders. Upon recovery, he launched himself forward with a shout, knocking both Krum and himself into an exceptionally large mound of snow. They tumbled for a while, wrestling like small children rather than grown men who had seen far too much of the world. Eventually, they came to a halt in front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Krum was straddling George's waist, pinning down his shoulders, and grinning. His cheeks were red and his dark hair hung in his face, snow clinging to several strands. Chests heaving, he and George stared at each other. Then, without warning, Krum leaned down and kissed George softly on the lips. The contact was brief, and before George could process what had happened, it was over.

Krum –no, Viktor, George mentally corrected himself– pulled back and gazed down at George, eyes twinkling. A smile played gently on his lips, joyous but slightly uncertain. "Are you happy now, George?" he asked quietly. In response, George pulled him back down for another kiss. _I am_, the kiss said. _Thank you_.

Wednesdays weren't so bad after all.


End file.
